Character Study of Clint Barton
by mo person
Summary: A simple character study type fic revolving around Clint Barton and his recruitment into S.H.I.E.L.D and his first heat.


A simple little thing with no clear plot... Seriously. There is no plot. Or smut. Or pairings. It's more like a character study. This is my head cannon. Love it. Love my head cannon.

Clint was a small, weak little omega when S.H.I.E.L.D found him wandering the streets alone, teetering on the cusp of his very first heat. His bow and quiver were strapped to his back, tattered boots were barely shielding his toes from the cold snow on the Seattle sidewalk. He was the fabled Hawkeye, seer of all things, always hits the mark! Come one come all! See this marvel of human mastery!

But he missed.

One shot, because he had been feeling really off lately and his stomach had cramped violently against his purple uniform and he doubled over from the horse. The arrow flew and lodged a centimeter off center. He was kicked out of his circus. His home. Tears flowed down his face as his body continued to groan and shift, cramp and shake. He pressed a trembling hand to his belly, wincing as a harsh cramp rippled across his abdomen, causing his soft belly contract and expel bile from his raw throat.

And black van cruised to a stop beside the poor teen. Clint pressed himself as far into the wall as possible, trying to evaporate into thin air, but to no avail. An older man of maybe 30, 31 years approached him slowly. He was an Alpha. Clint's nose picked it up almost immediately, and he was shocked when he felt a wetness between his thighs and a distinctly erotic sensation course through his veins.

"Calm down, I won't hurt you. I have pheromone neutralizers in both nostrils, so I can't smell you." The man soothed. "Why don't you get in the van and we'll get you to a safer place."

Clint promptly passed out. It _was_ his first heat and the first time he had ever been alone. The man's scent clogged his brain, it was too mushy anyways. His brain, that is.

The man, Phil Coulson, caught the omega and lifted him into the passenger side of the van. He let him rest on his side, and pulled a blanket over his smaller form. He then climbed into the front passenger seat and nodded to the driver, who sped away.

When Clint awoke, it was to the bright lights of the infirmary and the distinctly alien feeling within him. He whimpered softly, trying to keep small and quiet, he didn't want to wake the ringmaster. He yelped in fright when a pair of hands reached for him. He fought to get the hands away, slapping the nimble limbs away until he was subdued by a strong red haired beta woman. She stared into his green eyes, her own brown eyes exuding a dominance that wasn't commonly seen in betas. Perhaps she was actually an Alpha. Clint couldn't make any sense of things.

"Calm down, soldier. You're in heat, not dying." She snapped.

"Heat?" Clint asked weakly. "I've never had that before."

"This is your first heat?" The woman's brows furrowed, forming a wide v on her smooth forehead.

Clint nodded as a wave of hormones caused his body to wet itself even more, making his thighs slick and his pants soaked.

The woman left, leaving him there alone.

He was left in the care of a kind omega nurse. A pregnant one. His hair was put in a pony tail at the nape of his neck, as hair growth was common for expecting omegas. He was gently dabbing a cool wet rag on Clint's forehead, letting the water cool his feverish skin.

Clint was thankful for the short respite from the burning. He was still trembling, though. The omega was singing softly, providing Clint with something to focus on. His scent was calming also, as it resembled that of a newborn babe's mother, and Clint had never formed a bond with his maternal parent. He had never scented a pregnant or nursing person, so he had never formed a parental bond.

The omega nurse's scent made him feel like a small child, weak and vulnerable. It was a feeling he would usually despise. But with the nurse, he felt protected and surrounded. He didn't need to worry.

"If you're up to it, we can let you wait out this heat. But if you feel like it's too much, please tell me so I can put a damper on it. I can't use it every time, but it should help you a little." his voice was pleasantly soft. Clint's ears twitched.

"Um, what happens if my heat is too much for me?" Clint asked. His hand found the omega's wrist, pausing the pregnant man in his minstrations.

"In some cases, brain damage can occur. In some serious cases, death is unavoidable due to the violent constrictions in the abdomen paired with debilitating brain damage and some serious hemorrhaging. So you really need to tell me if you start feeling too much pain or if you're over heating." The omega said.

"I'm just going to sleep then." Clint said, releasing the omega's wrist.

"Alright. Sweet dreams." The omega smiled.

Clint didn't remember much after that. He woke up long after his body had naturally run its heat course. His body felt normal again, for which he was very thankful, and his pants weren't wet and slide-y anymore.

Clint was not alone, however. The woman who was a beta, but could have been an Alpha was sitting on a chair by his bedside. She was checking her nails and humming a soft tune. She wasn't even a year older than him.

"Morning, sunshine." The woman spoke. "You hungry yet?"

Clint stayed quiet out of fear. He was used to working for his food, stealing rations and hoarding snacks in every possible crevice in his little cart he shared with the jockeys in the circus. He didn't know what he had to do for food. He had heard of some omegas having to perform humiliating sexual acts to be granted food. Some of them contracted diseases or pregnancies. Clint wasn't particularly fond of either at the moment.

"Yes? No? Maybe so?" The woman turned her gray eyes to Clint, questioning him with her steely gaze.

"What do I have to do?" Clint mumbled.

"Get up, maybe. Put on the uniform I got you - which was hard to find in your size - and follow me to the canteen. We don't like to force our agents and recruits to work for food. It's a human right to have sustenance. You don't have to worry." Natasha told him. She stood up from her seat. "I'll be waiting outside the door for you to finish changing."

Clint took a minute to process the new information. He was told that he was autistic, and by default, a little slow. He had never known a place where food was free. Either it cost way too much money or he had to hit a bunch of bullzeyes from almost impossible feats. But Clint had no way of knowing where he was without trusting the beta-alpha lady.

He took off his standard hospital paper gown and slid the crisp clean standard issue (Extra small size) recruit uniform, with a blue crest, onto his body. It felt nice, if a bit baggy on his torso. It fit nicely otherwise.

He shyly exited the room, and followed Natasha to the canteen.

That's how it all began.

Natasha and Clint's friendship was notorious. Half of S.H.I.E.L.D thought they were an item, while the other half knew they weren't interested in the opposite sex, respectively.

Clint's love affair with food, however, was even more notorious. For all of Clint's faults, everyone knew that Clint's talent with cooking was unparalleled. Forget the fact that his eyesight was stellar and he could never miss a target, his cremé brulee and veil roast was the most scrumptious thing on the face of the planet. And don't even get them started on his cakes.

Once Clint found out that agents were welcome to take classes in universities during training, Clint jumped at the chance to be a chef. Natasha teased him saying that it was his phobia of being hungry but Clint didn't care. He absolutely loved eating and it was a good thing that S.H.I.E.L.D had him on a rigorous training regiment because he would have gained eighty pounds by the end of the first semester.

And Clint finally understood why he sucked at reading. He was dyslexic. (thank whatever deities that existed for personalized college courses) which basically meant that he had a little more trouble reading and deciphering things than others. He wasn't autistic like the circus folk liked to tell him.

He was also diagnosed with OCD. Which made sense, because his rooms were immaculate and his hygiene was stellar.

His heats were surprisingly regular and manageable. They weren't a hindrance to him, and even if he desired pups and a mate, he could deal with the stress.

That's Clint.

The omega archer, dyslexic, foodie agent.


End file.
